


But We Fight For Roses Too

by queenofchildren



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Abby helps, Angst and Fluff, Declarations Of Love, F/M, Post-Canon, basically a songfic bc I will never stop loving that genre, socialist!Jake, this is weird i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-08
Updated: 2016-10-08
Packaged: 2018-08-20 06:46:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8239828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofchildren/pseuds/queenofchildren
Summary: In which Bellamy wants to be with Clarke, Clarke doesn't know if she can let herself be with him, and Abby, Jake and the socialist movement help her make up her mind.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am currently obsessed with the Song "Bread and Roses" as sung by Judy Collins and in the movie Pride. This is what happened. Like I said, basically a songfic. Songfics are great. Fight me.

“I love you.”

It’s just one little phrase Bellamy says, casually on the way from the mess hall to the med bay, and yet it paralyzes Clarke more efficiently than any stun baton could. How can it be possible that hearing it can make her both deliriously happy and completely terrified at the same time?

“And I want us to try and be happy.” Bellamy looks at her and grins nervously. “After all, we did stop the end of the world.”

They did, Clarke agrees, but they’re nowhere near done fighting, probably never will. They may have stopped the nearest nuclear power stations from melting down and irradiating the continent, but earth is still trying to kill them, half the grounder clans in the area are still refusing to make a peace treaty even though they saved their necks, and the blood on her hands from all the people she killed still seems to cling to her skin, thick and hot and poisonous. She simply can’t imagine the kind of future Bellamy seems to imagine for them.

She grasps blindly for words, for a way that tells him that she wants nothing more than to agree to his suggestion and yet can’t seem to let herself, no matter how much she loves him back. (More than he knows, probably, more than she ever thought she’d love someone and still, somehow, less than he deserves.)

But none of those thoughts manage to transform into words, and soon they’ve reached the med bay doors and Clarke turns to face Bellamy, heart swelling in her chest as she meets his soft gaze.

“I don’t… I can’t…” she takes a deep breath, knowing what she should say but not ready to say it yet. Instead she says: “Give me some time to think about it, okay?”

She knows he will before he even nods, and this too makes her heart ache. 

“As much time as you need.”

Then he continues walking down the corridor to start his guard shift and Clarke ducks into the med bay, where she’s resumed her medical training with her mother. But the encounter won’t leave her alone, leaves her distracted all morning, until her mother finally suggests they take a break and head to the mess hall.

As soon as they’ve both set down their trays of food, her mother asks: “What’s with you today? You’re not normally this distracted.”

It startles Clarke a little, this reminder of how well her mother knows her, seeing as they’re only slowly growing closer again after everything that happened over the past two years. But it’s also comforting, and Clarke simply blurts out:

“Bellamy said he loves me.”

Abby’s eyes widen, and it takes Clarke a moment to realise that her mother probably isn’t surprised at the information itself but rather at the fact that Clarke chose to talk to her about something like this.

Abby tilts her head questioningly, a silent invitation to continue, and Clarke does. 

“He says he wants us to try and be happy.” She swallows hard but continues. “And I want to, I do, but there’s so much to do still, so much to figure out… Our people need us, we can’t afford to get distracted. And we don’t… _I_ don’t….” she breaks off, her throat closing off before she can finish the sentence: _I don’t deserve it_.

Her mother sighs, then takes Clarke’s hand in hers – and says the oddest thing: “Before you were born, your father was obsessed with the socialist movement on old earth.”

“What’s that?” Clarke asks, even though she’s not quite sure what the socialist movement has to do with her current problem. She decides to listen anyway, wondering if she should have heard the term before, in Earth history perhaps. But she always found it hard to find anything noteworthy in the subject. What was the point of looking back on a society that had destroyed itself, she had wondered in youthful ignorance. She knows better now, has learned from listening to Bellamy about all the ways in which history keeps repeating itself even now that most of its traces on earth have been erased.

“It’s a political movement that came up in the 19th century to protect workers in the factories. They had very few rights and had to work themselves to death just to have something to eat and a roof over their head. The socialist movement fought for the workers’ rights and, later, to reduce inequality within society in general. Some of them called for a revolution, a complete overthrow of the existing system to install a new one with equal rights for everyone and equal distribution of goods and capital.” Abby smiles briefly. “Bellamy would like it, probably.”

Clarke has to smile too. He definitely would, and if she tells him about it, she has no doubt he’ll be plowing through the Ark’s historical database for days. But she doesn’t quite get what her father’s political opinions have to do with the question at hand. Luckily, her mother seems not to have forgotten.

“There was a song Jake discovered, a marching song sung by the women workers. He loved it, he used to hum it while working.”

Abby pauses, her far-away look suggesting fond memories. Just listening to her mother mention her father would have enraged Clarke just a few months ago. Now, after she has learned about sacrifice and mistakes and all the ways in which people can hurt the ones they love, Clarke is no longer as quick to judge. She stays silent, allows her mom the moment of fond nostalgia.

“It was about the workers’ struggle, about the people who died and their determination to keep fighting. But the song also pointed out that they didn’t just fight for mere survival, they fought for freedom and dignity and the chance at a full, happy life. There was one line in particular that stuck with me: ’ _Hearts starve as well as bodies; give us bread but give us roses.‘”_

Clarke ponders the line for a few moments to try to get to the bottom of it. She’s never seen a rose except in old movies and photographs, but she knows what they stand for: beauty, and love.

“Your father and I were discussing having a child back then,” Abby continues. “I was against it, not because I was scared but because I thought that with our limited resources, I could contribute more to the Ark’s future by focusing on my work, on helping people. But then Jake played me that song, and when it was done, he looked at me and said: _'Roses, Abby. I think we need roses too.’_ ”

Her mother breaks off, sounding choked. Then she puts her hand over Clarke’s on the table and squeezes gently.

“And he was right.”

Clarke is feeling a little choked up too now, though she’s not sure if it is because of that unexpected insight into her parents’ marriage or because she too understands what her father meant to say – has said something very similar herself actually, even though that feels like it was lifetimes ago.

“Life should be about more than just surviving.” Clarke waits out the pang of pain that comes with the memory of who she said that phrase too, and wonders if she would say it again today. Does she still believe the words? Or rather, can she try and believe them again?

Abby nods. “I think so too.”

Their lunch break ends abruptly at that moment when someone runs in and starts yelling about an explosion and injuries, and the rest of the day is spent at the med bay, racing against time to help the injured workers that keep poring in, some of them barely clinging on.

They manage to save everyone, with only two victims of the explosion still in critical condition when Abby firmly and irrefutably sends Clarke off to bed.

“You’ll be of no use to anyone in your state. Jackson and I will take turns watching the injured, and tomorrow you can take over again.”

Abby steers her out of the med bay and points her in the direction of the living quarters, even gives her a little push that propels her along, and soon Clarke has reached the door to her room – only to pass it by and head on to a different one, a few doors down: Bellamy’s room.

She hasn’t seen him since this morning and now she wants, _needs_ to speak to him. Her mother’s story, her father’s words, and the reminder of how precariously they’re holding on to life here on earth, have all worked together to help her make a decision, and she can no longer wait to tell him about it.

Unfortunately, Bellamy isn’t there when she opens the door, so Clarke takes a seat on his bed to wait. There’s nothing unusual about this, they’ve often met here to talk when it was too cold to find some place outside and their conversation too personal to have it at the bar or the mess hall.

It also isn’t unusual for Bellamy to return from a guard shift and find her asleep on his bed, and to gently shake her awake to send her off to her own bed.

It is, however, unusual for Clarke to refuse and tell him she’ll stay here. Or for her to cup his face, conveniently close because when he’s crouching before her, and press a soft kiss to his lips. She had planned to tell him about her decision first, but she’s tired and everything’s still a bit blurry, so she thinks she should forgive herself for getting the steps mixed up a little.

When she draws back, the look on Bellamy’s face is somewhere between joy and awe and fear, and Clarke’s heart clenches with the same emotions as she says:

“Let’s do it. Let’s try and be happy.”

She watches him swallow hard, watches his fear slink away but his joy remain tempered and restrained.

“You sure? What changed your mind?”

Clarke’s muddled, exhausted mind struggles to come up with any words at all, and finally settles on the shortest possible summary of the day’s revelations.

“My Dad. And roses.”

_Right,_ the sleep-addled part of her brain says, _that’s over and done with, now let’s get back to sleep._ The other part, the part that just allowed herself to be in love with Bellamy Blake, is pretty sure that now is _not_ the time to sleep, but is overpowered by her drooping eyes and the fact that her arm has given out already and is no longer propping up her head.

Bellamy looks down at her with a soft expression, incredibly beautiful even from her lopsided perspective.

“I’m not protesting, but I really don’t understand.”

Yes, Clarke thinks drowsily, she should probably explain. But she’s just so, _so_ tired.

With the last of her strength, Clarke pulls him down to lie on the bed beside her so she can snuggle into him. That’s something she can do now, isn’t it? Bellamy at least does not resist, only chuckles and loops his arm over her shoulder.

“Socialism, Bellamy,” Clarke mumbles. “Look it up.”

Then she’s out like a light.


End file.
